Knife Edge (2004) (13 page)

Sergeant Bolton was somewhere on his left. An experienced N.C.O. who had served in several trouble spots, he was known to his friends as ‘Rimshot’. He had begun his service with the Corps as a boy musician in one of the divisional bands. Off duty, he had joined up with a local jazz band, and his dexterity with the wire rhythm brushes and the snare drum had brought him a lot of admiration at two or three dance clubs. Unfortunately, he
had been seen by a senior officer, who had reported the matter. Defiantly, Bolton had applied to transfer to the commandos, where he had taken to the sometimes brutal training without apparent regret. The nickname ‘Rimshot’ had followed him.

Sergeant Ted Boyes was close behind him with a squad acting as rearguard. Another veteran, some one you never had to nag or remind. A true commando, and it still amused Irwin that such a heavily built body could move with the stealth of the lizard he had almost crushed. Good with the marines, experienced or green, but try and take advantage of him and you’d think a cliff had fallen on you.

He saw the lieutenant and a corporal pressed against some fallen trees. There was no time to linger. This was the most dangerous moment: officers and N.C.O.s all together. It only took a short squeeze on the trigger.

They passed, Ross giving a mere nod, but keeping his eyes on the rough, partly overgrown track, where plantation workers had once hacked a path. Rain was dripping from a gap in the jungle canopy overhead; he saw it bouncing on Ross’s shoulder, splashing his face. He ignored it. Another irritation which could change into a trap for the unwary, or the over confident.

Irwin tested a piece of rotten wood with his boot, and saw the immediate swarm of large black termites from beneath it. When he looked back, Ross and the corporal had vanished. Ross seemed to have changed so much in the short time since they had met. A far, far cry from those other times on some training course or other. Scotland? Somewhere . . .
Matured.
Even that was not the word he wanted. Young, with a full career ahead of him. If he lived long enough. And with the Blackwood family name . . .

He peered at his watch. Timed to the second. Each small section would stop. Right now, just as they discussed. It
was the only way to avoid the risk of some solitary person getting separated, lost, wandering alone.

He thought of Ross again. Might end up a half-colonel like his late father, if he kept his nose clean and stayed out of trouble.

And what about you?
As if somebody had spoken to him aloud. He glanced at the sergeant, ‘Rimshot’, squatting nearby, one leg folded beneath him like a spring. He was apparently watching a procession of ants winding its way over a piece of stone, but one hand was resting on his light machine-gun.

It was a question that often bothered Irwin. He had been lucky to gain a commission, let alone get three pips on his shoulder. But later on, what then? He would not rise any higher with so many cuts in the armed forces, penny-pinching by the politicians who were always ready enough to throw lives away if they made a mess of things in Parliament. At best he might end up in the recruiting section, or talking to all those eager young faces at various Royal Marines cadet corps units. Telling them what they were missing if they didn’t sign on. If he had got married, things might have been different. But she had tired of all the waiting, the ‘brush fire wars’ as the newspapers called them, and she had married a petty officer in naval stores at Portsmouth. He was retired now and they ran a little pub down there, not a stone’s throw from the barracks. Two kids as well.

Rimshot Bolton lifted his wrist and tapped it where his watch would be under his tunic.

Irwin nodded abruptly. This was not like him. Dreaming like some dozy recruit.

He rolled over and was on his feet in seconds. Not even out of breath. He glanced at the sergeant and was about to grin, but it was like being stricken, his mouth stiff, unmoving.

A marine stood between two trees, viciously spiked rattans, one hand reaching out as if for support, the other pointing directly at Irwin and the crouching sergeant. Except that Rimshot Bolton was now kneeling and perfectly balanced, the gun firm in his grip.

He said softly, “It’s Davis, sir.”

Irwin said nothing. Marine Davis was one of the rear party, the tailenders. But how did Bolton know?

He had turned toward the voice, still reaching out, head turning from side to side but seeing nothing, trying to speak, choking on his blood.

The insane question repeated itself. How did Bolton recognize him? He had no face.

Bolton moved swiftly.

“Here, Taff! I’ve got you, lad!”

But he had fallen.

Irwin dragged out his whistle. Warnings flashed through his mind. Caution, experience, discipline were suddenly meaningless, the very things which had brought this poor butchered creature back to the only hope he had left. Too late.

The whistle shattered the silence, joined instantly by unseen birds as they burst away through the dripping trees overhead.

Like a madness, a fury that drove all else aside.

Us or them!

He heard feet crashing through the undergrowth, caught the glint of steel.

He ducked around a tree and felt his finger squeeze the trigger and the gun jerk in his hands, heard a sharp scream, and ran on with the others pounding behind him.

Not an exercise this time. It was in deadly earnest.

Us or them.

Major Keith Houston pressed both hands on his map across the top of a steel locker on
Vigilant
’s bridge and studied every pencilled calculation, although he felt he knew them by heart. He had been politely offered the use of the chart room but had declined. The apparent calm of the place went against his mood of uncertainty; he might even have called it doubt. The occasional helm orders, the distorted voices from the upper bridge, were like a pretence. When he raised his eyes he saw the reality, an endless panorama of green, broken only by a strip of beach, or an outthrust prong of headland. Like something solid. Any map or chart told a different story: tiny creeks and larger, hidden stretches of water, winding tracks through the thicker areas of jungle, deserted now if Richard Suan’s rebels were still around.

He weighed it in his mind. Intelligence, realistic information, or simply guesswork? He should be used to that.

He looked over at the two senior N.C.O.s. Colour Sergeant Brannigan was an old sweat by any standards, with a reputation for complete reliability. A lot of service in the Far East; the sort of man who obeyed without question. A type of marine who was slowly disappearing. And Blackwood, who was watching the distant shoreline,
outwardly relaxed but eyes always alert, perhaps measuring the value of the whole operation. Houston had seen him rub his side a few times. The bruises, the reminders, were still there. He stopped if he thought he was being watched. A first class N.C.O., but one you would never know. Unless he wished it.

He glanced at the lieutenant. Piggott was reading from a little notebook, his lower lip set in a pout. Neat, clean, efficient. Not even a webbing strap twisted or out of place. No wonder the marines loathed his guts. He simply could not be faulted.

And the others. Some he knew by sight, others not at all. It was like that in his Hong Kong detachment. Marines came and left, by air or in crawling troopers, according to need and urgency. Not like the top commando brigades, where you even knew their nicknames and hobbies. The ‘family’. He saw Norman, his Marine Officer’s Attendant, who was leaning back against an unyielding stanchion, apparently asleep. Servant, orderly, and more than once a bodyguard, nothing ever seemed to shake Alf Norman.

His time would be up soon. Houston shied away from the thought. This was not the moment for regrets.

He watched the land again, a vast hotch-potch of islands, large and small. Names written in blood, so often at each other’s throats,
and at ours.
Borneo, Sarawak, Sumatra, Malaysia and Singapore. Law and order had not come easily. From the South China Sea to the Malacca Strait, piracy, smuggling, and revolution had made all the political bridges hard to build, and harder to maintain. He heard feet on the ladder, sharp and precise, like the man. The liaison officer. He wondered what drew men like him to these outlandish appointments. Houston had worked with and alongside the Brigade of Guards several times during his service. There were none wilder when the chips were down.

“You’ll be going ashore soon now, Major.” It was not a question.

Houston kept his eyes on the land. “When we’re ready. My people are on their toes. They have two days’ rations, no more. So it’s got to be right.”

“Of course. But
Vigilant
’s captain is under the strictest orders, too. The Singapore-Malaysia Agreement, Section Eight, restricted waters, and so forth.”

Houston saw Sergeant Blackwood get to his feet, hands checking his pouches and pockets. His ammunition. He knew.

Major Mannering said, “Your Colonel De Lisle understood this agreement from the beginning.”

Houston answered sharply, “Well,
my
Colonel De Lisle isn’t bloody well here, is he?”

M.O.A. Norman stepped casually between them and picked up the map case. It could have been an accident. He might even have given an imperceptible shake of the head.

He made his point. The threatened storm had passed.

You should be a bloody general
, he thought.

He said, “My compliments to the captain. We are ready. And that is
my
decision.”

Steve Blackwood had heard some of it and guessed the rest. He looked at the land. Two miles off, no more. He could already smell it, feel it, mistrust it. Would Boyes remember what he had said? And the other part:
ask questions afterwards.

The rudders were turning, the land slowly swinging across the blunt bows. He thought suddenly of the grand old house, Hawks Hill, which was probably already being demolished to make way for more ‘progress’. One large painting had caught his eye, a battle scene somewhere, the uniforms all scarlet, muskets and fixed bayonets thrusting through the smoke.

And one young officer, sword raised, waving to his men to follow him. The painting had been listed in the catalogue as
The Royal Marines Will Advance!

He watched the land, dipping with the swell.

The young officer’s face could have been Ross Black-wood’s. He checked his webbing pouches unconsciously.

It could be now.

His fingers encountered a packet of cigarettes. Time for a last smoke before things got hectic, or ground to a full stop. Coming to terms with it . . . It took them all in different ways. Age, experience, willpower. Like drink; he could take it or leave it. He had seen what it had done to others. He glanced at the burly colour sergeant, Brannigan, a strong presence to have nearby, a man without fear. He tapped open the packet.
And without imagination.
That was his strength. All talking had stopped now, and the landing party waited in silence, watching the shore spreading out slowly on either bow, like arms opening to receive them.

Deliberately he straightened his back, assessed himself. There was no fear. He put a cigarette into his mouth and felt for his lighter.

Houston turned and saw it. A last cigarette . . . He shaded his eyes against shafts of weak sunlight reflected from the narrowing strip of water. The sky was clearing again, the decks steaming very slightly in the humid air.

How long was it since he had drawn on a cigarette? Ten years now, at least. He had tried to switch to a pipe; his wife had said it suited him. But then, as now, he was too restless, too eager to be on the move. Always scraping and poking, filling and refilling. His friends had claimed that he used more matches than tobacco. Fitness was a challenge, a battle. He could feel his shirt clinging to his skin. He was losing the fight.

He saw Blackwood looking at him. Heard him ask, “Care for one, sir?”

Houston said, “I think I will. Thanks.”

He coughed and watched the smoke in the sunlight.

Where was his wife right now, he wondered. She had been having an affair. Rather more than that. He brushed some ash from his sleeve.
I was a fine one to throw blame at her.

He felt the deck shudder.
Vigilant
’s captain was cutting it fine. What would Section Eight have to say if they ended up hard aground?

He dropped the cigarette into a sand-filled bucket and readjusted his holster.

“Take stations for landing!” He saw faces turning toward him as the marines hurried past. A decision had been made. Like something from the schoolroom of long ago:
theirs not to reason why . . .

He closed his mind. The water was warm, up and around his waist, his boots sliding and then gripping as they waded up the beach.

Darting, crouching figures fanned out on either side, weapons at the ready, staring at the jungle, the sun at their backs.

Norman was with him, breathing hard and fast, ready to prove as always that he could still keep pace with the best of them. One man slipped and fell, another paused to drag him to his feet. Just a few seconds, a quick exchange of grins, then charging on together again.

How many times . . . Houston wanted to call out but his breath failed him. All the exercise, the knocks and bruises of the rugby scrum had been wasted. Just when he needed it. Then came the pain, with the force of an explosion. When he tried to draw breath again there was only a groan. Inhuman. The sun had gone suddenly. Another storm . . .

But his reeling mind told him that men were stooping over him, shutting out the light. And there was blood, choking him, blotting out all but the sound of his agony. Two hands gripped one of his. It was Alf Norman.
I must say something to make him smile.

Sergeant Steve Blackwood swung round, his eyes on the trees, the gun moving only slightly while the first marines reached cover and vanished.

Quietly he said, “Leave him, Alf. Keep with the others.”